The sculpture they looked at was Anima Dannata, depicting a condemned soul staring into the abyss of hell. Jordana drew closer to the display. “Bernini shows you every crag in his subject’s face, every livid vein and hair standing on end. You can actually see the torment in the man’s face—you can feel it. You can almost hear the scream of horror from the man’s open mouth. Bernini shows you everything. He dares you to experience it.”
The stranger nodded. “You take your art very seriously.”
“I love it,” Jordana admitted. “It means everything to me.”
Something flickered in his unusual green eyes. “We share that in common, then. I am a lover of art myself. And today, a newfound appreciation for Bernini. Your favorite piece, I take it?”
“Oh,” Jordana said, shaking her head. “No, there’s another sculpture that I like even more. But it’s not as important as either of these.”
“Will you show me?”
For a moment, Jordana forgot all about the fact that the exhibit was currently off-limits to anyone but museum staff. She led him to another of the pieces housed inside a Plexiglas display.
“Cornacchini’s Sleeping Endymion,” he said, a smile on his lips. Jordana noticed he hadn’t needed to read the placard. “You know this one too?”
“It’s been in the museum’s collection for many years, I believe.”
“Yes, it has.” He must be a longtime patron of the museum, to be so familiar not only with art in general but with this particular piece as well. “Endymion came to us by anonymous donation a couple decades ago. It was in another exhibit most of that time, but when I began planning this collection, I had to have it.” She gazed at the reclining human shepherd, sleeping under Selene’s crescent moon. “There’s not another piece in the entire museum that I love more than this one.”
A cryptic smile played at the corners of the stranger’s mouth. “I can’t imagine it being in better hands.”
Jordana considered the odd compliment, her curiosity about the man deepening the longer she spoke with him. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old, she guessed, but he had a wisdom about him—an indefinable aura that made him seem far older than his age.
He wasn’t Breed; he had no dermaglyphs that she could see, nor would he be walking around during daylight hours without being wrapped in yards of UV-protective gear, if he was one of Nathan’s kind.
And yet her senses seemed to resist the notion to call him human.
Flummoxed, she extended her hand to him. “I’m Jordana Gates, by the way. The exhibit curator.”
He hesitated momentarily before taking her hand in a warm, firm grasp. “Yes, I know who you are.” At her uneasy look, he indicated the ID badge hanging from the lanyard looped around her neck.
“Oh.” Jordana laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, but … who are you?”
At first, she didn’t think he would answer. Then, carefully, he said, “Cassian.” No more, no less.
Did she know that name from somewhere?
She couldn’t be sure, but Jordana knew she’d never seen this man before.
Jordana withdrew her hand from his. “Well, Mr. Cassian, I really have enjoyed talking with you. But it’s getting late and no one is supposed to be in the exhibit before it officially opens tomorrow, so …”
“Of course,” he replied politely, even dipping his head slightly in an almost courtly bow. “And I assure you, Jordana, the pleasure has been all mine.”
She took in his shoddy attire again and felt a pang of regret for the way she’d discounted him on sight. And she couldn’t just push him out the door, especially not knowing how much he enjoyed the exhibit. “Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t pause for his answer. Impulsively, she pivoted away and hurried back into her office. Riffling through her desk, she grabbed a pair of complimentary tickets to tomorrow’s grand opening event and full-day admission to the museum.
“I just remembered I had a couple of leftover passes in my office,” she said as she returned to the exhibit room. “I’d love for you to have—”
He was gone.
“Mr. Cassian?” Jordana scanned the area, then made a quick search of the nearby exhibits.
He wasn’t there.
She hurried to the gallery overlooking the museum’s main entrance lobby.
Nothing.
He had left.
No, he’d vanished.
Mysterious Mr. Cassian was gone, as swiftly and cleanly as a ghost.
13
HE HAD RISKED FAR TOO MUCH.
Cass made a hasty dash through the city streets, oblivious of the rain that soaked his thrift store clothes and cheap, soggy shoes.
He was across the city from the museum now, unsure where he was headed except that it had to be away. Far away. As far as he could get, and he had to go at once.
He hadn’t expected to linger as long as he had. In his mind, he’d imagined entering the museum for a few short minutes—just long enough to visit the treasure that had branded him a wanted man, traitor to his queen and his kind.
A treasure that he was giving up today … forever.
Of course, the anonymous donor of the Sleeping Endymion sculpture twenty-five years ago was no mystery to him. He couldn’t deny his satisfaction—his relief—at knowing that particular treasure was in a safe place, and had been all this time.
But the terra cotta figure wasn’t the only secret he’d been keeping since he’d fled the Atlantean queen’s court.